Standing alone
by anagogia
Summary: When Sherlock discovers that he is ill he decides to hide it from John because he is sure that if he lets him discover his weakness John is going to leave him without regret. So, he goes through diagnosis and therapy on his own. He knows he doesn't deserve anything different.
1. Chapter 1

When Sherlock hesitantly enters her surgery she stares at him with a questioning look on her face.

"I thought this was a joke."

"A joke?"

"Yes. That is weird. Assuming that John's stories are true, you usually choose different ways to talk to people. Besides that, you didn't need to take an appointment to talk to me. You could have phoned."

"I'm not here for pleasure."

She becomes immediately concerned, a worried wrinkle on her forehead.

"Is this about John? Did something happen to him?"

Sherlock frowns.

"Sarah" he states "I reserved an appointment and came here, in your surgery, because I need to talk to you as a doctor. I'm looking for your professional skills."

"Is this for you?" she looks embarrassed. "I mean, is this about one of the cases of yours or are you actually here" she pauses "as a patient?"

He remains quiet for a moment.

"I think I need… medical attention, but I have no desire to inconvenience you. If this makes you uncomfortable, I can easily find someone else."

"But… why didn't you just ask John to have a look at you?"

"Because." he answers. He is cold and detached as usual, and she isn't able to tell whether there is something wrong with that or not. Anyway, she decides not to linger any longer. If he is here because he is in need of a doctor, it's her precise duty to give him her full attention, although she can't pretend to be comfortable with that.

"Just one more question. Why do you choose me?"

"John helds you in high esteem, and I trust his judgement."

Sarah takes her time to properly look at him. He is smartly dressed, elegant as usual, his tailor shirt perfectly ironed. He doesn't look any different, maybe a little bit paler and more tired, but that's all.

"So, tell me. What's the problem?"

He gazes at her. She can tell there's something that is bothering him.

"You are well aware of the implications of doctor-patient relationship, aren't you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Anything I'm going to tell you and any other information concerning my health must remain private."

"Sherlock" she says "Although I can't understand your decision, I'm not going to blurt this out, especially not to John. You can count on my discretion."

"Fine."

"So, what's the matter?"

He bites his lips. She can tell that admitting that he actually has weaknesses is incredibly hard.

"Recently, I've experienced a sort of fatigue which is totally new to me. I'm feeling tired even if I've just get up. Sometimes, I find it difficult to just… do things."

"Anything else?"

"Loss of appetite, dizziness, headache."

"Any nausea or sickness?"

"Both, but not on a regular basis. Maybe twice or three times a week."

"Pain?"

"Not really."

"Do you move your bowels regularly?"

He flushes. "Yes."

"Any other medical condition I should be informed about?"

"None."

"Fine. Now, may I examine you?"

It's his turn to look uncomfortable now. He stares at his shoes before starting to unbutton his shirt. She notices how thin he is; has he always looked so… fragile?

"How much do you weight exactly?"

"71 kilos, more or less."

"Did you checked it before coming?"

"Should I have?"

"Come on the scales."

He does as he is ordered, walking across the room barefoot and not looking as stable as he should be. He doesn't even look at the numbers on the screen, he just turns back and lays down on the examination table. He is really weary, even if he tries to hide that.

"You lost four kilos. I think that you are underweight now."

"I never eat properly. It's not a big deal."

She decides not to argue, even though it's clear that this is, actually, a big deal. How can he possibly run across the city chasing criminals like that?

Before staring her examination she checks his vitals. His BP is too low, she was expecting that, and he's got a 38° fever, which is much more worrying.

"Did you check your temperature in the past days?

"No, actually."

"Mmm. Great. Are you always that thoughtless about you well-being?"

He grimaces.

"Much worse. Just ask John about that."

She sighs while she helps him to sit down and she puts on her stethoscope and listen to his lungs and heart while he takes deep breathes. His heartbeat is rather quicker than normal but regular and strong, and there are crackling rales and rattles in the upper lobe of his left lung. She asks him to lay down again and she probes his stomach, instructing him to tell her whether he can feel any discomfort. As soon as she reaches the lower left quadrant and presses gently he winces in pain; she can feel his enlarged spleen under her fingers, and she can tell without touching that his liver is swollen too. She carefully lifts his eyelids searching for jaundice but there is none.

Definitely, something is wrong.

"I'm going to take a blood sample, and I'm going to book you a chest X-ray and an ultrasound scan as soon as possible, maybe tomorrow. And I want you to start with antibiotics immediately."

"Is it really necessary?"

"Yes, it is. You've got a fever, low BP, dehydratation, and there are a few things about your examination that I want to study in deep. I want to admit you."

He is surprised; a frightened glance cross his face but it lasts for an instant before being replaced by his usual distant, cold mask.

"No." he states, and she understands that there is no chances that he changes his mind. "I'm not that sick."

She ends up writing a prescription for the medications she thinks he needs at the moment, and she almost begs him to came back the following day for the tests.

He agrees and he stands up, looking unsteady and dizzy once again.

She shouldn't let him go, but has she got any choice?

"Thank you." He says before leaving.

It is just when he is long gone that she realizes that he didn't question her about his conditions at all.

**_I'm not a native speaker but I'm working hard to improve… I hope that my English is acceptable and I hope that you like the first chapter. Both laudations and criticism are welcome. _**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN This is the second chapter; it's longer than the first one and there will be more angst. Thank you very much to everyone who read and to everyone who reviewed. I hope that you still like it. As usual laudations and criticism are both welcome and so are suggestions and request s. Sorry for my mistakes, hope you enjoy!**

Falling asleep is usually difficult for him but this night he finds it almost impossible. In the past years he has always been able to avoid doctors and hospitals, taking care of himself on his own and more or less succeeding in self-prescribed treatments and self-administered therapies. Being a patient is something that he just can't stand. He hates being the object of people's attention, he detests being studied and touched and looked at. The sensation of Sarah's hands on his body, the memory of her eyes scanning him still haunts his fevered attempts to sleep.

Falling ill is something that he can't afford. Even though he pretends that he has no human weakness he knows that he is, after all, human, but it doesn't mean that he has desire to let anyone else get the evidence of this regrettable condition.

_He has no right to be ill. Being hurt and helpless and needy belongs to normal people, it belongs to people that deserve to be fussed over, to people who deserve care; it does not belongs to abnormal human beings like him. Freaks have no right to be sick. Anytime he has been to a doctor's in his life he has expected someone to say "How do you dare?", and the fact that this has never happened just means that they have pitied him enough to avoid to say it out loud._

Could he choose, he would prefer to stay hidden in his bedroom until it goes away on his own. The problem is that this time he is quite sure that this wouldn't work. Saying that he feels tired is an utter understatement; he feels exhausted all the time, he find excruciating to get up and do everyday-life things such as shower or preparing tea, and working nowadays is almost an heroic venture.

The week before, he almost refused a case, and that scared him more than hell. What if he becomes too sick to work? Working is the only way he knows to make himself feel entitled to... well, to exist. Moreover, his work is the reason for which John is still there after over a year. No cases would mean no John, and he is ready to do anything _- anything_ – to keep the right to be in John's life.

Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo ooooooooooooooooooooooO

At 8 o'clock in the morning he enters the clinic, his suits perfectly ironed and his hair combed as if he's just wake up from a peaceful night. As soon as he reaches the reception desk he discovers that Sarah is waiting for him.

"Hey." she says "Hi. I'm glad that you are here. I mean, I was wondering if I had been scaring enough."

"Why are you waiting for me? Haven't you got your shifts to attend?" he asks, more bitterly that he intended to.

She frowns.

"Beg you pardon?"

He immediately regrets his tone; he didn't mean to be so harsh.

"I didn't mean to... I mean, there is no need that you come along. I can go to radiology and then I can come to you with the results. Just like one of your patients. No need that you treat me differently from the other ones."

"I'm not... treating you differently. I am concerned." Her tone becomes softer. "There are a few things about the blood tests I performed yesterday that worry me. I want to see the X-ray and I will be performing your ultrasound by myself. And that is exactly the way I do my job, I would do this for any other patient."

He remains silent and nods.

"So" she continues "Shall we go?"

The X-ray is not so bad; even though he has to stand shirtless for the longer five minutes in his entire life, the only thing he is supposed to do is inhale and exhale when he is told to. The ultrasound is an entirely different story. Sarah tells him to take off his trousers too and she helps him down onto the examination table. He feels his pulse become quicker and quicker while she moves the probe along his abdomen and pelvis. As soon as she starts scanning the upper left quadrant he can't stop himself from wincing in pain; immediately her free hand is gently caressing his right arm. He has never reached such a grade of discomfort_. Ever_. He considers the possibility to simply get up and run away, but this would just result in delaying an even worse confrontation with Sarah. Not a good idea.

Besides, he knows that he needs to stay there. He needs to get better, to find a solution, because he won't be able to hide his condition from John much longer. In the past weeks he has managed to keep John unaware because he has been sleeping at Mary's more often than in Baker Street, coming home just to take quick showers and to grab fresh clothes. Sherlock has spent hours and taken notes to identify the details of John's new "schedule" and, according to that, he is "due" to spend the evening at home every four days; Sherlock is determined not to waste the time he can spend with John laying worn out in his bed. Moreover, he is deeply confident that if John finds out that he is sick, unable to provide him the thrill of the cases, the best he can hope for is an immediate move and maybe a polite greeting card on Christmas.

So he just stays there, Sarah's hand feeling boiling on his stomach, his dark curls pasted with awkward sweat, and he thinks that this is the only way to avoid losing John, a damn good reason to stay.

Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo ooooooooooooooooooooooO

Sarah still can't believe that she is actually doing this. The man totally took her by surprise yesterday, coming along and asking _her_ to treat him. She cannot imagine a good reason that could led him to refuse asking John for medical help, not to speak about his bizarre decision to keep his friend unaware of the whole situation.

She knows that, since she has changed job and moved to St. Claire Hospital, John has become close to Mary Morstan, one of the surgery's secretary. And she knows for personal experience that John can be extremely "focused" when he is dating. Anyway, how has he possibly failed to notice that? She gazes at Sherlock's still form, his ribs far too prominent, his skin so pale that it seems translucent, his hands shivering slightly. It is glaring that the man is sick; she only hopes that the situation is not as bad as it appears to be at the moment.

The ultrasound is over; now she knows that her physical examination has been quite accurate, she was right about his spleen being dangerously enlarged, no surprise he is in so much pain, and she was right about hepatomegaly too. Sherlock doesn't seem to have noticed that he can get up and dress himself; actually, he looks like he's half asleep. She gently runs her hand over his forehead and she feels the hot rising from his skin. He's still got a temperature and she has the sensation it's a pretty high one.

The physical contact wakes him and he opens his eyes, his glance being foggy and unfocused.

"We're done. I think that we should go back to my surgery to discuss the results and the next steps. Are you alright?" she asks then, noticing that he is still lying down and that he has made no efforts to sit down.

"Alright. Yes. Sure."

"Be careful to get up. You've been lying for a while; your BP must be under the floor."

She doesn't have the time to finish the sentence, everything happens in a flash: one moment she's talking to him, opening the door to leave the room to give him time and space to dress up and collect himself, and one moment later she's kneeling down in the floor next to the unconscious form, asking for help, taking his too weak pulse, lifting his legs so that the blood can reach his precious brain quicker. If he could see himself now, sprawled across the floor just wearing his pants, exposed and helpless, a nurse lifting up his legs while Sarah checks his vitals, he would be ashamed to death.

When he came to he finds himself on a stretcher, wearing a hospital gown and connected to an IV line. A blurred figure is standing next to him. He feels his heart racing. Is it possible...

"John?" he whispers hesitantly.

As soon as he stops talking he realizes that the standing figure has got a pony tail. Damn, he is really pathetic, longing for John so bad.

_How can he be so utterly stupid? John would never waste his time with him when he's like that! How does he dare to even imagine that?_

"Hey" Sarah says. "How are you feeling?"

"What happened?"

"You passed out. You've been out for almost an hour."

"I'm sorry to have inconvenienced you. I didn't intend to."

"You haven't inconvenienced me, Sherlock. At all. I'm a doctor, remember? Your doctor, actually. Moreover you didn't require much efforts; the fever got you dehydrated, that's all. Your temperature is still 38,5, by the way."

"So" he asks "What happens now?"

"Are you sure you're ready to listen to me now? You don't look completely... you yet."

"I'm fine."

"Ok. Right." She sits down and takes a deep breath.

"Your blood test shows that you have pancytopenia. It means that you have low counts of both white and red blood cells and platelets. It isn't a severe case yet but it is really close to, especially concerning your haemoglobin level, which is 7,1. It is extremely low and that explains the fact that you always feel exhausted. That makes you vulnerable to any sort of infection too, and this is the reason for which you currently shows the signs of a mild case of pneumonia, which justifies the fever.

Pancytopenia has a lot of different causes which can be referred to two big groups: either the cells are destroyed somewhere in your body or your bone marrow is unable to function properly. I think the second solution is the most plausible, but we will need to run more tests; your ultrasound also shows that your liver and spleen are enlarged, and we need to discover why. Is it clear?"

He's looking at the white sheet wrapped around him, his usual detached, indifferent mask on his face.

"Yes."

"Fine. Now, you have been inflexible about the possibility of being hospitalized, and, since it is your decision, I agree to treat you as an outpatient as long as it is reasonable and as long as it doesn't compromise your chances to recover, but on the other hand if you still want me to be your doctor there are rules that you will have to comply with."

He stares at her with a questioning look on his face.

"First, you need to be honest to me. I want to know anything concerning your physical condition. Second, I want you to be observant to doctor's orders. Third, you will agree to undergo all the examinations I will consider necessary, even though they require day hospital regimen. Fourth, if I will notice that being an outpatient will become unreasonable, you will let me admit you or you will find another doctor. Do you agree?"

He smirks. "Do I have any choice?"

Sarah smiles. He looks so different from his usual self, although he still has got more dignity than anyone else, wearing the hospital gown and lying down on that little stretcher makes him look so vulnerable and... sad? He should have someone with him. She still fails to comprehend why he doesn't want to tell John the truth.

She starts to explain a lot of different things, talking about antibiotics and iron supplies and proper meals; she instructed him about temperature monitoring and correct hygienic procedures for immunocompromised patients. She told him that he absolutely needs to get plenty of rest. He seems to be dazed.

She still doesn't know what the problem is exactly, but she knows that this is serious. He is seriously ill and will probably get worse soon. The first thing she should tell him is that he needs someone to comfort him, to take care of him, that he can't go through this all alone.

"Sherlock." she starts "This can be serious. This is serious, actually. We need to discover the cause of your condition and then treat that. It will presumably be a long course; it will be difficult and in could be.. Painful. You should really ask someone to ..."

"No". He states.

"But..."

"No."

"Fine." she sighs. "I'm going to book a CT scan and a bone marrow biopsy for you as soon as possible. I will keep in touch." She disconnects him from the IV line. "Do you need a hand to dress up?"

"I'm fine." He sits down and it is clear that he is not. He's having troubles collecting his breath and he's dizzy and shivering and still feverish.

And he's alone, which is what worries Sarah the most.

"Is someone coming to pick you up?"

He doesn't bother to answer.

"May I call you a cab?"

"It would be kind."

Five minutes later she has been thanked again, and again. She stares at his back while he crossed the street, walking slowly, his arms wrapped around his torso. He clambers into the cab without looking back.


	3. Chapter 3

**First of all, thank you very very much to anyone who reviewed, you're amazing. As usual sorry for my mistakes. I hope you all like the chapter. Let me know your opinion, it would be precious. Enjoy and thanks a lot!**

WARNING: CHILD ABUSE

_Sherlock stares at the kids across the window: they look like they are having fun, playing together in the school's green. He can hear their laughs even from his bedroom. Every afternoon he spends hours hidden behind the curtains studying their behaviour, trying to understand why he is so different from them._

_He hasn't still realized why, apparently there is no difference between him and them but he knows that this difference - better, this inequality – exists, that is something he feels everyday even though he can't see it._

_He is so concentrated that he doesn't notice the tall figure standing beside him._

"_Still trying to understand, boy?"_

_He turns his head and blinks at his father, uncertain about the correct answer. The man doesn't wait for his son to speak and kneels so that their eyes are at the same level._

"_Stop doing this, Sherlock. This is fruitless and stupid. You are not like them, they wouldn't like you. They would hate you. It's better for you to stay here, hidden and safe. I'm not going to let you humiliate yourself and my name by showing the world which kind of beastly creature I've given birth to."_

_Hours later, when he comes home beaten and bruised, his nose broken and bleeding, his father is waiting for him._

"_Come here" he orders from his armchair. "Look at me, boy."_

_Sherlock does as he is told to; he perfectly knows what's going to happen._

"_So" the man starts "who was right?"_

"_You were right, dad. They hate me." he whispers._

"_They hate you, of course they do."_

_All of a sudden he grips his wrists tightly, deliberately hurting his thin arm. Sherlock can smell the bourbon's acrid scent._

"_Of course they do." he repeats. "Tell me boy, who are you?"_

_He can't stop himself from starting shivering, unable to speak and scared to death._

"_Come on." he hisses before slamming his already beaten face. "What are you?"_

"_I'm a mistake." he stammers. "I'm wrong. I'm worthless."_

"_Go on."_

"_I'm a freak. I'm a waste of space. I'm vicious. I'm inhuman."_

"_Yes." he murmurs, more to himself than to Sherlock. "Yes, try not to forget this again. Now, you know what you deserve. Don't complain, it's your fault."_

_He gives him the glass that he was holding, the greenish, chemical-smelling liquid threatening to overflow._

_Sherlock takes the first sip, the bitter fluid going easily down his throat. He knows he is going to have a horrendous, painful time and that it is entirely his fault._

_His father is right. He has been stupid, he should have known better. He is different, he is wrong. He doesn't deserve friends._

Since he became a (the) consultant detective, this is the first time Sherlock is grateful for not having heard anything from Lestrade. At the moment he is barely able to lift himself and to carry his weight to the bathroom and back; the idea of having to get dressed and going out is simply unbearable.

His head turns restlessly on the pillow, as though trying to get away from the heat surrounding his head and body. His eyes are aching, there's a dull pain in his stomach which is getting worse and worse, and he has the sensation that he is going to be sick again. Gingerly he takes the thermometer and puts it under his armpit waiting until it beeps.

Still 38,7.

The previous night his temperature rose 40°; his head was threatening to burst and he was unable to focus enough to do anything – take some paracetamol or have a cold shower or anything else that could break his fever.

He has never felt so miserable before. He is covered in sweat, his hair is moistened and disheveled, his T-shirt studded with brown spots, his eyes circled with red marks. Every single day in his life he makes quite an effort to at least mitigate his obnoxious physical appearance with elegance and allurement, and now that he is incapacitated to do that he knows he must look much worse than disgusting.

_He has paid a lot of attention to his flatmate's new habits. John's new schedule includes one night at home every four nights with Mary. Today is the fourth evening, John is supposed to be at home and he would never – never – let John see him like that. John, the kind-hearted, generous, amazing man that still hasn't realized that he could have much better and still allows Sherlock to stay around him, deserves the best he can offer._

He painfully sits down on the bed, the room spinning around him, and the light coming from outside hurting his eyes. He gets up, feeling unsteady and so weak – he has never imagined that it would have been possible to be so exhausted – and slowly makes his way through the bedroom. As soon as he reaches the living room his legs succumb to his weight and he sinks down to the floor.

_He wishes he could be different. He wishes he could be normal, he wishes he could be human enough. If he had not been himself, he wouldn't have ended up like that, lying exhausted on the floor, wearing a filthy shirt, his mouth so dry and his tongue so swollen because the water is too far and he hasn't drank anything since the evening before. If he hadn't been himself but someone else, someone that deserves attention and care, there would have been someone with him, but there is no one else. That is exactly what he deserves._

He doesn't know how long he stays there, but eventually he feels strong enough to try to stand and reach the bathroom. He heaves violently, his forehead resting against the cold porcelain, his hands shaking for the effort to lift himself up, to avoid ending up with his face in the toilet.

He eventually manages to take a shower, and if he stumbles here and there, well, this is something he can handle in order to make his appearance tolerable. He dresses up and combs his hair, fighting not to faint and trying desperately to ignore the pain that grips his head and his stomach and that is threatening to overwhelm him. He wonders whether John will notice something; if this would happen, he is determined to deny anything and to lie without regret.

It is 6 o'clock in the evening when he finally sits on the sofa, staring longingly at the door. He is looking forward to his evening with John, even though they are not going to do anything special.

At 8 o'clock he admits it is becoming late; John's shift ended two hours before, he must be on his way, maybe already walking down Baker Street.

He boggles any time he hears footsteps coming closer, waiting hopefully for John to come home.

He doesn't.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN This is the fourth chapter, and this is much longer than the previous ones. I found it very difficult to write, it should be extremely sad and I'm not sure I've been able to reach my goal... I hope that there aren't too many mistakes and that you all don't find it impossible to read. I would be glad to hear whether my English was understandable or not and whether you liked the chapter. Thanks a lot to anyone who read and reviewed the last chapter too **** Enjoy!**

John hesitantly shifts his head from Mary's lap, immediately missing the soft touch of her hands running through his hair. He stares adoringly at her, his lips immediately searching hers.

"God, she's beautiful." he thinks. He still can't believe that such an attractive woman has actually chosen him among all men. He wonders why.

"What's wrong, love?" she asks.

"I should go home."

She frowns. "I thought you were quite enjoying yourself here."

"I was. I mean, I am. But I haven't seen Sherlock in four days. I'm sure he expects me to come home this evening."

Mary immediately slips away, looking impatiently for her slippers on the floor.

"Great. So, go home. What are you waiting for?" She starts preparing herself a cup of tea, slamming the bedroom's door behind her. "Go to your owner. I can hear him whistling." she hisses.

John gazes disbelievingly at her.

"What do you mean by that?"

Mary comes back and sits on the bedroom, her sight softened by his docile, astonished question.

"I'm sorry, love. I was upset because of the thought of you leaving, I didn't mean to be so harsh. You know I want only the best for you, don't you?"

"Yes, but... what's the matter with Sherlock?"

"There is no matter, dear, it's just that... you always forget about yourself when he's involved. He calls and you run towards him. You're always there for him, always ready to please him, always worrying about him. Is he giving you anything in return?"

"He doesn't need to. He's my friend, and he saved my life. Twice." John answers defensively.

Mary goes closer and takes one of John's hands in hers, kissing it smoothly.

"I'm sure that he cares for you... at least he tries, in his own, odd way. But you made Sherlock the centre of your life and I just think that this is not healthy. There is no balance in this relationship. You are always giving and he is always taking. Sooner or later, there won't be anything left. " she sighs, looking uncertain and doubtful. She seems to be deeply touched by this argument, and John almost feels sorry for her. "Do you really think that he is at home, waiting for you to come back? Can you really imagine him staring longingly at the door? "

John just stands speechless, uncertain about what to say. He must admit that Mary has a point, although there is something that simply sounds wrong_. Sherlock is his friend, isn't he? He desires to spend time with John, doesn't he?_

_Is he making himself ridiculous, running after Sherlock all the time?_

Suddenly, the idea of spending with Mary another night doesn't seem so silly. He feels slightly guilty, but he is always overreacting, isn't he_? Probably, Sherlock won't even notice that he hasn't come back._

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO O

The following morning, Sherlock somehow manages to reach the hospital in time, to go to the radiology department for his CT scan and to come back to Saran's surgery without neither throwing up nor falling asleep somewhere on his way. He still feels exhausted, and the night that he has spent awake, hoping that John would have come back until it was unreasonable to do so, hasn't actually helped his already weakened body.

He doesn't blame John. He was surely doing something much more pleasant than spending the evening at home with a freak, odd flatmate who isn't even able to keep himself healthy enough. Besides, they didn't have a proper agreement; John hasn't ever promised Sherlock to come home every four days, so there is no reason to feel so crestfallen.

He tries, unsuccessfully, to ignore the grief that is overwhelming him. _He has no right to feel abandoned, John is not supposed to stay with him all the time, he is not supposed to give up his life in order to waste his time with him, so he must stop being so utterly stupid and collect himself. _

When Sarah calls his name, his usual, indifferent mask his placed on his face, and he is even able not to straggle when he stands up and enters the room. He sits down and feels Sarah's eyes inquiringly studying him. He sits straight and politely smiles at her.

"I have tried to call Dr. Soo at radiology but he hasn't seen your CT scans yet. He is going to call me as soon as he examines it. So, how are you doing?"

He wonders what he is supposed to say now. "I feel I'm going to die all the time" isn't an option even though it's the truth.

"I still feel tired." he starts "and I've been feverish for most of the time. Besides that, it's not too bad."

She tilts his head narrowing his eyes.

"Am I supposed to believe you?"

He clears his throat and remains silent.

"Did you rest as I told you to? Did you take the antibiotics you were supposed to take?"

"Yes, three times a day."

"Anything new? Anything that I should be informed about?"

"I've had some... difficulties in keeping down food, but this is something that occurs to me when I'm stressed, so I don't think this is a big deal. I have experienced headache and stomach ache sometimes too." he admits.

"Headache is probably due to the fever, while abdominal pain could be related to splenomegaly. Is your left side hurting?"

"No, it's the epigastric area actually."

She ponders for a moment, her fingers intertwined together.

"Let me have a look, would you?"

Then, the whole ordeal starts again. She listens to his heart, his lungs, asks him to breathe deeply and to cough and eventually helps him to lie down and starts probing his abdomen.

Her hands feel boiling on his skin. He is so uneasy and ashamed that he realizes that he has stopped breathing only when she presses down above his navel and the pain is suddenly so bad that he can't stop himself from moaning, little tears of pain glittering at the corners of his eyes.

"Have you ever experienced something like that before?"

He tries to collect himself before answering weakly.

"I am used to nausea and stomach pain, but they aren't usually so bad."

"It could be peptic disease, or Helicobacter Pylori infection. You could try PPI, and if they don't work we should consider a gastroscopy. You must be careful with that: quit caffeine and smoking, and try to eat plain foods. Having such a low platelets count, a gastric haemorrhage could be life threatening."

He just nods, unable to argue.

"Now" she goes on "since you are already on the examination table, I'm going to perform the bone marrow biopsy. It is quite a simple procedure, although it can be rather painful sometimes. You will only have to lay on your right side and don't move. When we're done, you will be able to go home, but I want you to bed rest at least for 24 hours after the procedure. Is it ok?"

He nods again.

"You didn't change your mind about the idea of being admitted for a few days, did you? It would be just for a few days, I will be able to perform all the tests that you need and we could keep an eye on your fever and on your stomach too. And I would be able to give you intravenous antibiotics; they would work a lot better than oral ones. Your lungs haven't improved as much as I hoped."

"No:" he says, and this time he is as firm as he is able too. "Hospital is the last option."

She wonders whether she should insist more, but she finally decides against that. She knows how stubborn Sherlock is, and there is no reason to upset him more. God knows if he desperately needs peace and quiet.

"Fine. Now, turn on your side and take off your pants. I'm going to insert the needle above the sacrum."

He flushes and slowly does as he has been ordered too. He closes his eyes, trying not to think about the fact that he is lying in front of Sarah helpless, feverish and naked. _"This is for John. To keep John. John won't allow me to be around him if I don't get better." _he repeats to himself.

"You're going to feel cold; it's just iodine solution to clean the area. Now, I'm going to insert the mandrel, it's not going to hurt."

Sarah works efficiently while explaining to Sherlock what she is doing. He is still and silent and his eyes are closed. She is trying hard not to show him how uneasy she feels about this whole thing. It is difficult for her to be professional, to treat him just like a patient and nothing more. They are not friends - she suspects that he has no actual friends besides John and maybe that DI – but she has learnt to at least value this man. She thinks that he is a better person than he lets anyone imagine, and she knows what he has done in order to protect the one he loves.

As a doctor, she is well aware that she is supposed to respect his will and to keep his conditions a secret, but as a person she has more than one doubt about the right thing to do. She noticed that he is far from being fine, there are dark circles around his eyes that demonstrate he's not sleeping well and he has lost at least another kilo. He is weak and exhausted, and his new symptoms are making the situation even worse: no wonder he is unable to take care of himself. He needs help, he needs to be taken care of; he should have someone to prepare meals to him and to make sure that he takes his medicines; he should rest and he should be able to use all his efforts to recover without anything else to worry about.

_He needs_ _to have John by his side, he needs to have John to comfort him and to tell him that everything is going to be fine_, but she can't tell John the truth; it would be a betrayal, and furthermore illegal.

There is no way to do the right thing.

"Now, I'm going to insert the needle and to take the sample. This could hurt. Take a deep breath and try not to move, ok?"

She gently inserts the needle and moves it around until she reaches the correct position; when she is sure that everything is correctly settled, she presses the button above the needle. She knows it is going to hurt, a lot.

"I'm ready to take a little slice of your bone marrow. Are you ok?"

"I'm fine." he answers, trying to appear quiet.

Moving her hand as gently as she can, she cuts. His body tenses up, and she sees his hands holding tightly the paper sheet.

She deepens the incision, and he is unable to avoid a soft moan. He is shivering and his right arm is lifted up to hide his face – he doesn't want her to see him crying. Most of the times she has performed this procedure, she has heard bawls and screams, and although his self control is as unwavering as usual, she knows he is in an awful pain.

"I've almost finished. One more minute to go and then I'm going to take everything out."

If he opens his mouth, he will scream and cry out, so he just nods and keeps his eyes shut.

"_This is for John." he thinks again and again. "This is to keep John. If I'm not healthy enough to work, he will go away. He won't be my friend anymore. He will not come back; I won't ever see him again_."

There is a small voice in his head that's whispering to him that John will leave no matter what Sherlock does. He can't do anything but let it speak; deep down he knows the voice is right.

When Sarah finally takes the needle and the mandrel out she gets no reaction. She places a large white dressing above the hole. Sherlock is breathing quickly, traces of tears on his face and tiny droplets of sweat on his forehead. She gently put the thermometer in his ear and waits until it beeps.

"You've got a pretty high fever."

He opens his eyes, they are glassy and unfocused and his hands are shaking; he is unable to hide that he is close to collapse.

"Do you think you can stand up?"

He looks at her, his cheeks rapidly becoming red, then he shakes his head.

"Don't worry, it's ok, there is nothing to be ashamed about. You can rest here for a while."

She takes a black blanket and places it on his still figure.

"I'll ask a nurse to fetch you a cold compress. Just try to take a nap, ok?"

"Thank you, Sarah." he says feebly. Then, he curled up and tightens his arms around his thin body.

Sarah has the sensation to be intrusive, she feels like she has seen something too intimate, something she wasn't supposed to see.

"It is the fever, he must be cold." she tells himself while she goes away.

"_He was trying to hug himself." she admits hours later, when she is at home, in her bed, in the dark. "He was trying to hug himself on his own to find some comfort; maybe he was pretending there was someone else there."_

A single tear crosses her face. She can't remember of having ever seen something so sad before.


	5. Chapter 5

**First of all, I'm really sorry for the long delay. I'm working hard these days and I haven't got much time to write. Anyway, I swear I won't ever abandon this story. I can't believe that there are a lot of people that actually read, liked, preferred and reviewed it. You are amazing! I hope you all enjoy the chapter, let me know what you think, if you find any mistake and if there is something you'd like to read. Thanks again!**

When Sarah comes back, Sherlock is sitting on the examination table, he's wearing his black suit and his hair is perfectly combed, even though he's still pale, his reddened cheeks contrasting weirdly against his white, ailing complexion.

"I've got your CT scan results. The good news is that there isn't any solid mass, which is something I was frightened about."

"So, I don't have cancer."

"I don't think so." she paused. "But it could still be blood cancer. We need to wait for the bone marrow biopsy to exclude that."

"Is there a bad news?"

"The scan shows that you have a pretty large gastric ulcer. There is a quite high risk that it could bleed or lead to a perforation, so, since you refuse hospitalization, you need to take very seriously my instructions. No smoke, no coffee or tea, no spicy foods, and no starvation. I'm inflexible about that. You need to eat regularly plain foods to protect your stomach 'walls form the acid secretion, and, first of all, you need to rest."

Sherlock is looking at her with neutral expression, and Sarah wonders whether he has really understood how serious the situation is.

"I'm serious about that. A hemorrhage could be fatal for you, your platelets amount at the moment isn't adequate to stop a gastric bleeding, and even though you could manage to reach a hospital in time, your immune system is far from being efficient enough to resist an emergency surgery. You could die. And, although I know that you perfectly aware of that, let me remind you that stress increases greatly the acid secretion. You need to stay quiet. Do you understand that?"

"I may not be a doctor but I have two degrees and a PhD. I perfectly understand what you're saying. I appreciate your concern, and I can ensure you I'm not willing to die any time soon. I came to you to ask to treat me; it would be silly not to follow your orders, wouldn't it?"

"Very silly in fact. "

He stares at his shoes. He is embarrassed, and it is clear that he desperately desires to go away as soon as possible. He is used to deduce anything from anyone, being the object of someone else's deduction must be incredibly hard for him.

"I wrote a new prescription for you. There are all the medications you have to take. If you have any doubt or any new symptom, please, call me. Otherwise, I will be waiting for you on Monday for blood tests. I hope that the biopsy results will be ready, so we will be able to discuss the next steps."

He simply nods. He looks so tired, she has the impression that he could fall asleep on the floor.

"Go home and consider yourself restricted to bed rest until then. And Sherlock…" she puts a hand on his arm, hoping not to violate his intimacy too much "… you can call me any time if you need something. I would be glad to give a hand."

He winces at the contact, but he doesn't break it.

"Thank you. That is something I'm not used to say, you know. I mean that."

"You thanked me any time I did my job with you, even though it was my duty and there was no need to do so." she thinks.

She should stop him, she should force him to stay here, he's so weak, he's sick and it's too dangerous for him to stay at home, but she is unable to do so. She can't imagine him being helpless and needy, it feels so wrong, so she just lets him go and pretend that he's fine, although she keeps telling herself that this is not what a good doctor would do.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO O

He lies in his bed trying to breathe. He has never imagined before that breathing could be so hard. Any time he inhales, a sharp pain cut his body mercilessly. His back is hurting, his abdomen is hurting, his head is threatening to burst. He feels miserable. His hand reaches the blanket and grasps it desperately trying to lessen the pain.

_He pretends that it's John's hand that he's holding, he pretends that he is worthy enough to have someone -to have John – with him. He dreams about being enough for John. He dreams about how it would feel not be a repulsive freak. _

He is not really scared of death. He has considered the idea of killing himself many times in the past years, and he remembers very well the hours he has spent desiring to simply stop existing, but the idea of what people would have thought - _weak! pathetic!_ – has always stopped him. He has unconsciously started to look for danger while working on a case, probably hoping that sooner or later an accident would have solved the problem sparing him the shame of committing suicide.

This was, however, before John. Since he has met John, he has experienced something he had never known before: happiness. He doesn't really believe that John considers him a friend - _who could ever want to be friend with him_? – but John is so kind, so warm and caring that it's so easy to pretend.

Sometimes he almost believes it; then, he imagines what John would think about that _- how do you dare? Me being a friend of yours?_ – and he tells himself not to be stupid. He has no friends, he is perfectly aware of that and he has said that before; he simply has a deal with John: he provides excitement and thrill and John allows him to stay around. It's not much, but it's the best he can hope for, so Sherlock is determined to do anything it's necessary to keep complying with it.

So, when his phone starts ringing and Lestrade asks him to join the yarders to a crime scene, John already being on his way, he doesn't think about it for a moment. He grabs his clothes and he rushes over the stairs. His vision is still blurred, and he stumbles here and there, but that doesn't matter, because he's going to see John, and he will solve the case and John will say that he is amazing, and they will have dinner together and after that he will come home.

Finally, he will come home.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO O

"Oh John, are you really going? Come on, it's raining! It is not something you are supposed to do with a storm out there!"

"How thoughtless, a murder during a storm." John replies bitterly.

"This is not your job, John. You're not a policeman, let alone an amateur detective. As usual, he calls and you run after him."

"It's not… come on, I', not running after him. Why are you so adverse to Sherlock? And besides that, I like this. I like investigations, I really do."

"I'm not asking you to stop doing this, but…" Mary pauses, and then she explodes "How can't you see that? He uses you! He uses you as an audience! You are useful to increase his ego! He's selfish and self-centered and he always behaves like he is above us all! He doesn't need you, he takes advantage on you!"

John is astonished and unable to talk. A part of him is shouting that it is Sherlock they are talking about, his best friend. Another part of him, however, is quietly whispering that the woman talking is his soon-to-become-fiancée, the woman who loves him the most in the world.

_Sherlock faked his own death to save you! _

Sherlock did this because he loves the drama, and he always wants to be in the middle of the stage.

_He said that you are his only friend._

And then he drugged you as if you were a cavy.

_He cares for you, he cares for you more than anyone else._

It's not even sure he is capable of caring.

_Sherlock is your best friend ever._

Mary is the woman you love.

John stares at the floor, unable to think clearly. He feels guilty toward Sherlock, he would be hurt if he knew he doubted of him; at the same time, he sees Mary standing in front of him, her sweet eyes glittering with love and concern.

"John, I'm saying that because I want to protect you. You clearly adore him, and that is amazing, but… He doesn't reciprocate you. You see him as a loyal and brave man but he is the most selfish person I've ever met! Have you ever seen him worrying about someone besides himself?" she seems almost sad. "He will let you down, John. He is not youe friend. _He is unable to love_."


	6. Chapter 6

**You left me speechless… all I can say is THANK YOU, you are amazing! I can't believe that so many people actually like the story, all I can do in return is to put as much effort and care as I am able to in the story, and be sure that I will. I hope that you enjoy the new chapter and as usual I hope that you will be able to understand my English; this chapter has been particularly difficult to write, describing feelings and thoughts and unconscious reactions in a foreign language has been extremely hard, so please let me know if I managed to write something understandable. I'd like to make the character's decisions and behavior coherent with their thoughts, so I hope I reached the point. And yes, I'd like to trigger a few tears too **

**Thank you again, I mean it.**

Sherlock required less than an afternoon to solve the case. His mind was even quicker and sharper than usual, even though there was something wrong with him; everyone noticed that. The first accident happened when, after having knelt down next to the corpse to collect evidence, he tried to lift up and almost fell back down, managing to avoid collapsing by grabbing disgracefully a curtain's hem. Many other accidents happened that afternoon, both on the crime scene and later at the Yard; Donovan kept muttering something which sounded like "freakish experiment gone wrong again" and Lestrade discreetly asked if he was ok more than once. Sherlock didn't even answer.

The only one who seems to be completely oblivion of Sherlock's weird behavior is John, who is actually acting quite oddly himself. He appears to be distant, lost in his own thoughts, he doesn't remark Sherlock's brightness as he usually does and he even roughly grumbles Sherlock when he starts arguing with Anderson about the forensic expert's dullness.

By the time the case is solved and their work is finished, Sherlock is panicking. Although the adrenaline that his heart has pumped through his veins for the whole afternoon prevents him from fainting, he can still feel the hotness that is rising from his skin due to the fever, the pain that grasps his stomach as a clamp, the dizziness that makes his body weak and his ability to hide his feelings and thoughts fallacious and misleading.

He is dying for John's attention, he is longing for John's approval and John is barely looking at him, let alone talking to him. He has been brilliant, he knows that, and he has explained his deductions with a lot of details trying to get an accolade from him with no results. He knows that his devotion must be evident by now and he is astonished that there is no yarder laughing at him, pointing him out, mocking him for his glaring desperation for John's behavior.

_Why is he ignoring him? Is it possible that he has understood that he is sick? Is he already disgusted by him, is his weakness so repulsive that John is already, mercilessly dismissing him?_

He slowly makes his way out from Lestrade's office and from the Yard. John is behind him.

John is confused, he is nervous and angry, but he is far from understanding why. He has left Mary's flat after a massive row, the woman being exceedingly mad at him for his decision to take the case with Sherlock even after her speech. She had threatened him.

"_I'm not going to accept this! I'm not going to be the second choice!"_

"_But… you are not the second choice. There is no competition here. You are my girlfriend, and he is my friend."_

"_It is cold outside, it's raining, we had plans for this afternoon, and you are going away just because he called! He hasn't even sent a text for days, and now he comes out of the blue asking you to run after him in some stupid, dangerous murder case he is not even supposed to help with because he's not a proper policeman, and you go without a second thought, completely forgetting me, completely ignoring us!"_

"_That is his job!"_

"_His title doesn't even exist!"_

_It takes half an hour and several promises to appease her anger. While John is waiting for a cab, his heartbeat still quick, he receives a text._

"_I don't think I can deal with this for long. I can't stand the idea that you could die out there. I can't wait to know if I will ever see you again. It's him or me. I'm sorry. I love you."_

Reading that words had thrown him in a deep maelstrom of questions and doubt. Is he really neglecting Mary because of Sherlock? He hasn't seen his friend in days. Is he forcing his (soon-to-be) fiancée to experience angst and fear just to feel excitement and danger? Is he really so selfish? And what about Sherlock? Is Mary right? Is he running after a man that doesn't really consider him a friend, that has no ability to actually care for people? Should he leave, would Sherlock really be hurt or would he simply go on without John barely noticing his absence?

They walk silently down the street until they reach a cab station. Finally, Sherlock looks directly into John's eyes.

"So." he says, trying to sound indifferent; if John wasn't so distressed he would notice his hesitation, his sadness, his pain "Angelo's or Chinese take away?"

John doesn't know what to say. They have barely talked during the afternoon, he wasn't expecting that. He feels the rage rising up his chest. He knows it's not Sherlock he is mad at, but facing the truth is too difficult and painful at the moment.

"I can't. We already had plans for this evening."

The use of the pronoun cuts Sherlock's breathe as a knife. _We. We already had plans for this evening. _He should just nod and go away, he should wish them good evening and leave, but he is dizzy and confused and everything is so blurred, John has been away for almost a week and he is only asking for an evening, a bloody evening at home. He has hidden his disgusting illness and he has solved the case, he should get his prize now. He doesn't realize that he is so close to delirium that he has no control on his mind any more, he doesn't realize what he's saying before it's too late.

"It's always her, it has been days since you last come back. It isn't fair. Please, John."

He immediately regrets his words. This was not him, he didn't beg. (_Who could ever acquiesce his pitiful begging?_). How did he dare? He can see disgust and anger on John's face, he can almost hear his rage.

_No, no, no. I'm sorry John, I didn't mean that. I'm sorry, sorry, please John, I will be better. Don't leave John, I know I don't deserve you but I will do anything, anything, don't go John, don't go._

At the same time, John is astonished. Was Sherlock really pleading him? He remembers Mary's word.

He is unable to love.

"Oh, God." he thinks. "There is no chance he is really begging me to come home, so, is Sherlock manipulating me? Is he trying to torn my relationship apart again just because of his selfishness? "

Is he really unable to care? Is it true that he doesn't care for John… at all? Suddenly, betrayal is the only emotion he can feel.

"Why? Why should I come home? Is it for you? Did you ever give me a reason to do so?"

John is so mad that he doesn't see the look f desperation on Sherlock's face, he doesn't notice his nails biting hard into the soft flesh of his forearms, he doesn't hear the shy moan of distress coming out from his usually over-controlled mouth. He doesn't see the self-hatred that is radiating from Sherlock's body.

He only sees a man that he considered his dearest friend and that has teased him for years.

"I have to go. My _fiancée_ is waiting for me. I think I will take her to the sea for a couple of days as a surprise, so please, _don't try to contact me._ _We need our space._"

Then, John leaves. He is already feeling guilty, but he doesn't let himself think about that.

Sherlock stares at John's back becoming smaller and smaller. The adrenaline rush is over, and he realizes he has no strengths left. He hobbles until he reaches the nearest alley, he is too close to the Yard and he is afraid to be seen – no more people should be able to see that obnoxious sight. He reaches a cold stone stair and he heavily slips down. He can't focus enough to decide what to do next, the pain is becoming almost unbearable and breathing is becoming oddly hard. All of a sudden, he feels the urge to throw up. He tries to stand up to reach a bin but he miserably fails, falling to the ground and heaving violently upon himself.

He doesn't notice the blood on his clothes.

He doesn't notice the rain pouring on himself.

He closes his eyes, and he sees John going away, telling him not to contact him. Again and again.

_He is gone. I am not enough for him, he has found someone better. I disgust him. He is gone. He won't come back. No more John. No more John. Don't deserve him. No John for the freak. A freak. No John. A waste of space. No more John. John is gone. _

Then, it all becomes black.


	7. Chapter 7

**I can't find the words to express my joy. I am astonished that so many people liked the story. There is no way to say a proper thank you to you all. This chapter is going to be a little bit shorter than usual, but I promise a longer one for the next update. This is going to be VERY angsty, I tried to rewrite it to make it less painful but in the end I decided to go on with the original plan… I hope this is not too much (and anyway, I'd like to let you know that I love happy endings). Please, go on letting me know what you think. As usual, sorry for my mistakes. **

It's the pain that wakes him up. A stabbing pain is clutching his upper abdomen and chest, so sharp that he realizes that he can't breathe properly because his diaphragm hurts too much to expand.

There is just silence all around, a deep hush only interrupted by the cadenced sound of his teeth chattering. It is still raining and his clothes are drenched in frozen water, his dark coat having become so heavy that it feels like a boulder on his shivering body. He tries to open his eyes but his vision is cloudy and the droplets of rain slowly slipping on his face make him unable to focus.

As soon as a feverish chill shakes his body, he feels the urge to throw up again. He tries unsuccessfully to roll onto his side, his stomach painfully tightening. He is still lying on his back when he feels the acrid taste of bile and blood into his mouth. Every time his stomach heaves, the ache kicks up a notch; it is becoming worse and worse, and he is only vaguely aware of the fact that there are tears crossing his face. All of a sudden, he feels his airways shutting and he starts coughing and wheezing, his breathing fast and shallow.

He knows that if he doesn't manage to sit up he is going to choke. He pushes his hands against the ground and desperately struggles to lift himself up, but as soon as his head and upper body leave the pavement a wave of dizziness overwhelms him and he falls back again.

"_Don't try to contact me."_

While the world starts slowly disappearing, John's words echo in his mind.

_He is going to die before having had the chance to apologize. Could he have the opportunity to talk to him one last time, he would tell him how badly he tried to get better to keep the right to be his friend, to make John able to stand the sight of him; he would give anything to have the chance to say thank you to the only man who ever tolerated him, to the only human being who ever made him feel less unworthy, less undesired, not completely wrong. He would tell John that he never expected to actually experience happiness before meeting him. He would tell him that he is utterly thankful for the time that John spent with him even though he didn't deserve his attention._

_Could he see his only friend one last time, he would die without regret._

"Thank you John" he whispers "I'm sorry. Thank you John. Thank you. I didn't deserved that much. I am so grateful to you. Thank you."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO O

When Sarah recognizes the ID on his mobile's screen she frowns, a questioningly look on her face. She is a GP, why the hell is someone paging her from the A&E?

"Dr. Sawyer speaking."

"Sarah, it's Linda Farrell. I'm calling you from the A&E."

"Hi Linda."

"I'm sorry to inconvenience you but I think I just admitted one of your patients. The name is Sherlock Holmes. By the way, is he the real one?"

Sarah's heart starts pounding in her chest.

"What happened?"

"Someone found him unconscious in an alley and called an ambulance. He was hypothermic, he must have been outside in the storm for hours, and he was in septic shock. The CT scan shows a gastric perforations and a hemoperitoneum with a massive blood loss. He coded twice, but we managed to stabilize him enough to be rushed into the OR. I saw your records, that you diagnosed him with pancytopenia and that you were performing test to discover the cause."

"God. Oh, God." she whispers "Did he ever regain consciousness?"

"Never. I didn't find an emergency contact on his file, so I decided to call you." she paused "Are you okay Sarah?"

"I don't know. I know him. I used to date his flatmate. He's a sort of friend."

"I'm sorry then. I should have been more careful to deliver the news."

"You didn't know. By the way, I think I'll go to the OR to check the situation. Thank you Linda."

It takes her less than ten minutes to reach the surgery department and to change her clothes. She breathes deeply, inhaling the strong scent of iodine, and enters the OR. She forces herself not to look at Sherlock's sleeping face behind the sterilized towel, lying there helpless, a tube down his throat pushing air into his lungs.

She hesitates for a moment, than she reaches the anesthesiologist, being careful not to go too close to the operating table. She doesn't think she could stand seeing more.

"Dr. Boyle. Mike."

The anesthesiologist turns back and greets her with a doubtful smile.

"Sarah, what are you doing here?"

"He is one of my patients. I tried to persuade him to be admitted but… I don't know, maybe I should have forced him. Anyway, how's he doing?"

"He's not stable. I am administering epinephrine and I already gave him seven units of erythrocytes and platelets, but he's still bleeding a lot. They are going to perform a total gastrectomy because they aren't able to control the bleeding. He's septic, and his vitals are awful. I'm not sure he's going to make it, I'm sorry."

Sarah just nods, unable to talk. She goes and she sits on a stretcher placed in front of the entrance of the OR, cradling her head in her hands. She knew it was serious, she should have done something, she should have forced him to be admitted. She was his doctor, and she chose the easier way. He gave her his trust and she failed him. She had never felt so guilty before.

She puts her hand in her pocket looking for her mobile. She doesn't care for doctor-patient relationship anymore, she has already made so many mistakes with him, one more won't make any difference. The only thing she can do for Sherlock right now is to call his only friend.

He is not going to die alone.

She realizes angrily that she must have left her phone on the desk upstairs. She doesn't want to go too far from the OR, but she doesn't know John's number by heart. She is trying to decide what to do when she notices that Sherlock's belongings are stuffed in a plastic bag just below the stretcher. She opens the bag and grabs his mobile, quickly searching John's number.

She doesn't expect him to hang up twice.

Her hearts is pounding even faster now. What the hell has happened between them?

She dials the number again.

"Hello, this is John's Watson mobile. I am not available right now. Please leave a message, I'll call you back."

"John, this is Sarah. It's about Sherlock. I will explain you everything but now there is no time. I need you to come here. We are at St. Claire's. Please John, hurry up."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO O

Mary listens carefully to the message on her fiancée's answering machine. She is lucky: John is showering and he didn't hear his phone ringing. He came home distraught and guilty, talking about Sherlock. He almost called him to apologize for his behavior, but Mary managed to make him change his mind.

She is well aware that this is a war between her and that damned detective. She told John that Sherlock is unable to love, but she perfectly knows that this is not the true; it has always been clear to her that Sherlock adores John. The way he looks at him demonstrates such a deep devotion that it would be touching if it wouldn't be directed to the man she is willing to marry soon. Furthermore, the fact that John clearly reciprocates the feeling is something that she cannot accept. John's heart is big but there is no room for both of them; there must be a loser in this game, and she is determined to win the match.

"He was fine a couple of hours before, nothing too bad can be happened" she tells herself. She doesn't feel guilty at all when she deletes the message and starts writing a text in response.

John is hers now; the freak must learn the lesson.


End file.
